My house smells like puke, yet we can’t seem to find where the pungent odor is coming from. It’s not the cat, although she does have her own dirty kitty smell. She’s such a little whiner; our cat is. Her name is Wendy, though she seems more like an Amanda to me. Whenever I pick our baby kitty up, she cries a whinny moan. She can’t even meow yet. Maybe she’ll never learn such kitty tricks as how to meow, or catch a mouse, or climb to the highest, most unreachable spot in the house. When I see Wendy, I think of Lilith (I know, it sucks for Wendy but I can’t help such memory associations). When I spoil Wendy by feeding her four times a day, something you’d advise against, I am making up for the absence of Lil in my life. Your new lover, or boyfriend, or whatever, is probably filling my spot as the dominant male role in Lil’s life, which makes me sad. What does it mean when a kitty swishes its tail back and forth? Isn’t that a sign of being anxious, or nervous, or disgruntled? Wendy’s tail is swishing as I write this letter. She really hates human companionship and I can’t blame her. Humans stink like the puke smell in my house. And even if a human tries to cover its stench with man-made fragrances, the words and thoughts which come from its mouth are ten times as nauseating than that of our bitter, selfish and whinny cat. Speaking of human stink, hordes of boozing humans are spilling out of the bar conveniently located across the street from where I am sitting. Their conversations are filling the breezy night air, as their words float towards me in a garbled gust of language. The cat just knocked over a chair in the living room and my attention is shifting from trying to perceive the outside Los Angeles nightlife to trying to focus on my internal Los Angeles domicile. My life is similar to such ambiguous perceptions of knowing– really I’m just as confused as you are, trying to make sense of a senseless system of language, post-action. The voices have simmered across the street and the cat is gone. I am alone in the living room, contemplating the unknowns of tomorrow. My back is turning into a hideously misshapen lump of stress and complaining. With my head down low and my brain up high (coffee and energy drinks) the possibilities of existence never cease to amaze me. Mindy, this is making complete sense to me, as I think about my thoughts. But I know you have no idea, no intention of, nor understanding of my inner wonders in this inner-person state with which I reside. I wonder when this confusion will be supplanted with words of understanding? When is the apotheosis of my existence going to occur? Language is a game with no end and no winner. Children love to play with words, as they do with toys. What were your first words? I can’t recall my first words, yet I do recall my last thoughts of this tired yet sleepless night: Tonight we hold each other under the moonlight, dancing the tango; tonight we will eventually let go of one another to fall endlessly into ourselves.

99 Letters is the documented process of the visceral and emotional experience I had during my divorce. Writing these letters was an attempt to articulate my thoughts artistically and creatively. Read these memoirs as you would read a fictitious book. Syndicate entries using RSS and Comments (RSS).